I observe Mme’s very dress, sprawled flat on a table before me. Let me make this as objective as I can. Its pale pink organza is still crisp, its delicate embroidery still fresh, its ribbon roses still pert but… It’s ruined. We have ways of knowing when a dress is worn – a little smoothness here, a few crinkles under the arms, a little stain or two. But never has a garment been so disfigured by a stain in my many years of searching for meaning in the name of fashion.